Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,13
mortified in her life as she followed Mr Hapton into the corridor. There was something in Stanford’s mocking gaze that made her feel like a scullery maid caught with her skirts over her head, instead of a victim of a man who ought to know better.
But then she could hardly expect him to fight a duel for her honour. He also saw her as ripe for amorous adventure.
Face scalding, she glared at both of them. ‘You were given the run of the second floor by your hostess. Please do not come down here again.’ Shoulders straight, she spun away and marched through the door leading to the basement, slamming it pointedly behind her.
Horrid men. Just because they had the morals of tomcats on the prowl, did they have to assume everyone else was the same?
And if Mr Hapton told his tales to Lady Keswick, he would catch a cold. While she hadn’t given the lady any names, the dowager countess knew about Rosa’s family connections to the opera. It was how she had secured this position. Lady Keswick liked to help those in the theatre down on their luck.
She took a deep breath and realised she was trembling from head to toe. Hapton had made her afraid. And Stanford’s considering gaze had made her angry. Both for the same reason. No matter how drably she dressed or how prim and properly she behaved, men took one look at her foreign appearance and decided the worst.
Luckily, her two younger sisters took after their father, neither of them having their Italian mother’s dark complexion or jet-black hair. Neither of them, as her grandfather was fond of saying, looked like dirty gypsies.
Heart still pounding, face still full of heat, she headed for the kitchen in search of Jonas.
Chapter Three
Restlessness felt like maggots under Garth’s skin. Watching Penelope playing the harpsichord, while a solicitous Bannerby turned the pages of her music, was enough to turn his stomach.
After hours of ridiculous games in the afternoon and a dinner consisting of inane conversation, he really had to wonder if he’d survive the next few days without calling someone out. Someone like Hapton. He glared across the drawing room at the languid dandy and his fingers curled into his palms. He’d wanted to choke the life out of the ageing tulip of fashion this afternoon, and he would have, if he’d been certain Mrs Travenor hadn’t welcomed the man’s advances.
They’d looked very cosy in the linen cupboard. And she’d looked devastatingly flustered. Much as she’d looked the previous evening trapped in the passage. She’d certainly been angry when he interrupted them, but whether it was because he’d disturbed a tête-à-tête, or Hapton’s importunities, he had no way of knowing. Unless he asked.
He glanced her way. As usual she was sitting calmly at her embroidery beside Lady Keswick, looking thoroughly nunnish and utterly desirable. Her tapered, skilful fingers moved with a delicate precision. He imagined those fingers in his hair, or on various parts of his body. Most of all, he wondered how those lush courtesan-lips would feel beneath his own in the throes of passion.
He’d almost found out last night. Yet something, some chivalrous instinct, had held him back. An instinct he now heartily regretted after finding her with Hapton.
A stab of jealously twisted in his gut. For Hapton? Damn it all. What was he? A fifteen-year-old with a crush on his governess? He could have any one of the other women in this room at a snap of his fingers and the promise of a diamond necklace. And if he’d wanted, he could have had Mrs Travenor. He’d seen the longing in her eyes.
She might look like a nun, but his initial instincts had been correct: the woman was like all the others here. Available to the right man.
His gaze swung back to Penelope. Could he have her? Not that he wanted her. He didn’t. He would never touch another man’s wife, not even to prove a point to Mark, who deserved so much better.
No. Her he would chase back to London. Infuriatingly, Maria Mallow was sticking to her like a limpet to a rock and he’d yet to get Penelope alone and convince her to see reason.
Bannerby leaned over to turn the sheet of music. Didn’t the silly chit know he was looking down the front of her gown? Perhaps she didn’t care. Perhaps she wanted him to look.
Mark would be devastated if he learned of her perfidy. Why the hell hadn’t he made sure